Chapter 10

The Castle of Witches – Central Chamber

Merlin slipped from shadow to shadow, teleporting in short, controlled bursts. Each shift left only a whisper of displaced air behind him. He moved with the caution of a hunter and the purpose of a prophet, conserving every reserve of strength. The halls of Morgaine’s castle crawled with demon sentries—snarling beasts with twisted limbs and ember-red eyes. Merlin avoided each patrol with measured patience, dissolving into the darkness whenever a guard lumbered near.

He felt her magic long before he reached her. Through the broken corridors and splintered stones—ruins carved by war and sorcery—the air began to pulse in rhythmic waves. The Philosopher’s Stone thrummed like a beating heart, its power bleeding into every surface.

Then he reached the central chamber. Where the rest of the fortress lay in ruin, this room stood pristine—lavish, regal, impossibly untouched. Polished obsidian walls shimmered with glamours. Silk curtains rippled despite the stillness. Torches burned with emerald flame. Morgaine’s vanity manifested in every detail.

She was here. Merlin heard her chanting—ancient syllables older than Rome, older than Camelot, older than even his earliest memories. The ground vibrated with her incantation, power flowing to and from the Stone in a looping spiral of corruption.

He stepped forward, but froze mid-step. A flicker of mana flared behind him. Merlin vanished in a ripple of blue smoke just as a blast of shadow magic tore through the space he’d occupied. Four enemy mages emerged from the dark, hands burning with sigils of death. The air cracked as spells collided—light, shadow, sound, and wind clashing in a frenzied storm.

Inside the chamber, Morgaine paused mid-incantation, her eyes narrowing as she heard the ruckus. “Brutus,” she called, voice silked with command. “Cry out if you still walk among us.”

For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then came a crash. A mage hurtled screaming through the wall, slamming into the polished floor. His body writhed as though aflame, his mouth foaming with the remnants of a counterspell backlash.

Another mage stumbled into view, shrieking in terror—only to stiffen mid-step, his skin hardening, cracking, turning gray. Stone spread across him in a heartbeat, trapping his final cry in petrified lips.

Two more appeared at Morgaine’s sides, their hands pulsing with dark fire as they braced themselves to stand between their queen and her intruder. Merlin stepped calmly into the chamber. His staff glowed with a low, steady light—like the first star appearing at dusk.

“Morgaine le Fey,” he said gently. “Once more, I have come to stay the madness of your deeds.”

For all her confidence, a flicker of fear pierced her heart. Even weakened, even reborn, Merlin still carried the same presence—the same quiet authority—that had ended her mortal life centuries ago. The lines of his face, the cadence of his voice, the aura of power coiled behind his eyes ... it was all too familiar. Too close to the old Merlin. Nearly. But not quite.

Her fear melted into a slow, knowing smile. She could sense it. Feel it in the air. His magic was diminished. Belial’s curse still bound him like invisible chains. Compared to the Merlin who slew her, this incarnation felt ... lighter. Less formidable.

“My dear, dear Merlin Emrys,” she purred. “How I’ve longed to gaze upon that gnarled countenance once more.”

She flicked her fingers at her guards. “Leave us. You are not needed here.”

The mages wavered—then vanished in bursts of smoke. None dared question her. Morgaine approached him with slow, graceful steps. Her hips swayed with the confidence of a woman who knew her beauty was as deadly as her magic. Her black dress clung to her slender form, revealing pale skin and dangerous curves. Dark power coiled around her like serpents, admiring their queen.

Merlin gave a soft, almost indulgent chuckle. “Feeling confident, I see.”

“Should I not?” Morgaine replied, her smile sharpening into something wicked. “I can perceive it plainly. Belial’s curse still wounds you. You are not even a pittance of the man who once defeated me.”

Black magic hissed around her, tasting the air.

“Whereas I,” she said, lifting her arms as power surged. “Have never felt more alive. Strange, isn’t it? That such vitality should bloom in me only after tasting death.” She leaned forward, her voice dripping venom and delight. “At your hands.”

Merlin watched her with a weary sadness, not anger. His expression—serene, compassionate—infuriated her as it always had.

“Before this begins,” he said softly, “I would be remiss not to plead for your soul one last time.”

The shift in her elegant face was instant. Her mocking smile twisted into a snarl. “More of your vaunted mercy,” she spat. “More of your sanctimonious ideals. Hellfire itself is a comfort compared to your endless sermons.” Her voice cracked with fury. “Especially since you denied mercy to me once already.”

Merlin shook his head slowly. “I never wished to deny you anything, Morgaine. My heart has always prayed that the hatred within you might one day cease. But you refuse to change your ways. And I ... remain equally stubborn in asking that you try.”

She scoffed—harsh, bitter, brimming with centuries of resentment. “Change my ways?” she mocked. “Repent? Prostrate myself before the world I have wronged?” Her heels clicked dangerously as she stepped closer. “It was the world who wronged me first.”

Her eyes burned with remembered injustice. “I was of Pendragon blood—same as Arthur. But I was denied the right to rule. Because I was a woman—because I was born of a witch.”

Her voice dropped to a poisonous whisper. “Why, then, should I show kindness to a world that has hated me since the moment I took my first breath?”

Merlin stroked his beard with the quiet patience of a tutor addressing an especially petulant child. His eyes half-lidded, unimpressed, he regarded Morgaine’s tirade without a hint of alarm.

“So,” he said mildly. “You feel you have been oppressed ... because you are a woman. Because of your witch mother.”

Morgaine sniffed, chin lifting. “Am I wrong?”

“Not entirely,” Merlin conceded with a lazy shrug. “Though you still remain the farthest thing from right imaginable.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do enlighten me,” she said mockingly.

“It is true,” Merlin continued. “That when your heritage as a witch was discovered, many feared you. But do you ever ask yourself why?” He gave her a gentle, fatherly smile—irritatingly devoid of malice. “It is because witches have long flaunted their powers over their mortal peers. Your kind has ever delighted in tormenting the magicless, mocking those they deem inferior.”

His gaze hardened, sorrow threading through the steel. “And now, you prove those fears justified. You behave exactly like the fiend they accused you of being—when you could have simply risen above their prejudice rather than succumbing to it.”

Morgaine’s lip curled, rage and shame warring behind her black eyes.

Merlin lifted a finger, as if giving a small lecture. “And as for your supposed plight of being a woman...” he began.

A low growl vibrated at the back of her throat.

“I can tell you with absolute certainty,” Merlin went on. “That many worlds exist where women hold dominion and men serve. Those worlds are just as lost and broken as this one—perhaps more so.” He gave her a pointed look. “If you lived in such a world, my dear, you would still find reason to be the bitter sow standing before me now.”

Her face twisted, fury simmering beneath her composure. She hated being spoken to like this—hated it even more because she remembered this tone. The same tone he’d used when chastising her centuries ago. When he’d ended her life with that same calm pity.

Merlin continued, his voice soft, unshaken. “Everyone has reason to hate the world, Morgaine. Not only women. Every man carries a tale of woe he could wield as justification for lashing out. And yet ... most do not.”

His gaze drifted around the chamber, taking in the wreckage of her works. “Most choose to live peacefully. Because they grasp what you refuse to understand.”

He tapped his chest. “Evil lives in human nature. In all of us. Not in race or gender. Not in magic or the lack of it. It resides in the portion of our souls that belongs to Lucifer.”

His eyes met hers—ancient, sorrowful, and tired. “Giving purchase to his whispers is a choice every man and woman must make. In that regard ... you have surely failed.”

Morgaine’s nostrils flared, hatred pulsing off her like heat. But she forced her voice into a silk-smooth calm. “Yes, Lucifer lives within us all,” she said. “And he has made a fine home for himself in my black heart. But that matters little.”

Her chin lifted, imperious and proud. “I do not pity the other women of this world. I do not stand with other witches. I have been betrayed by them as surely as by men.” She took a single step forward, the flames painting her silhouette in demonic light. “The only being in this wretched realm I care for ... is Mordred.”

Her voice shook with something fierce and unbreakable—love or obsession, it was impossible to tell. “For him I commit my work. For him I burn the world if I must.” She lifted her hand slowly, power coiling around her fingers. “But for him to take the throne that is rightfully his ... you must perish.”

A terrible certainty filled her eyes. “We will not be sent to hell a second time.”

Merlin sighed—deep, full of centuries of disappointment. “Morgaine le Fey,” he said softly. “The tragedy of your life never ceases to sadden me.”

And the air between them crackled as the storm truly began.

The Castle of Witches – Outer Battlements

The battle raged far beyond the castle walls—Templars and demons clashing in a hellish sea of fire and steel—but atop the battlements themselves, a strange quiet held. Only the distant thunder of hooves and the pulse of Morgaine’s sorcery vibrated beneath the stones. Torches flickered in the cold wind, their flames green from demonic influence.

A cluster of demon sentinels leaned lazily over the parapets, watching the carnage unfold with amusement. One of them spotted a lone Templar straying too far from his unit, his shield raised as he staggered beneath a rain of infernal missiles. The demon raised a clawed hand and conjured a sphere of fire the size of a boulder. With a gleeful cackle, he hurled it downward.

The fireball hit the knight squarely, engulfing him in an explosion of heat. The Templar screamed—an awful, high-pitched shriek—as flames devoured his armor, his flesh, his very voice. The demons threw their heads back, laughing and pointing at the spectacle, secure behind their high stone walls.

Little did they know that death had already come for them. Iron claws scraped against stone. Silent shapes rose from the shadows below. Then—like panthers vaulting from the void—Ra’s al Ghul and his ninjas spilled over the battlements.

Ra’s struck first. The demon who had been laughing the loudest turned, eyes widening—too late. Ra’s al Ghul’s blade flashed once, a silver whisper in the dark. The demon’s jaw and tongue fell away in a wet spray, severed mid-laugh, his body choking on its own blood.

Shuriken sliced through the air like steel snow. Kunai buried themselves in demonic throats. Stunned sentinels staggered as black-clad shadows vaulted over them with acrobatic grace. One ninja landed on a demon’s shoulders, twisted, and kicked it screaming over the parapet to plummet into the forest below.

Alarms erupted across the walls. Roars trembled the night as demons rushed toward the breach. The battlements became a storm of claws, steel, fire, and blood.

The demons were different here—bigger, stronger, meaner. Many bore no magic at all, but their brute strength and rabid hatred made them twice as dangerous. They swung their massive arms in sweeping arcs that shattered stone and splintered spears. One demon grabbed a ninja and bit straight through the man’s neck, hurling the corpse aside as it lunged for another.

But the League did not falter. A ninja leapt into a spinning kick that cracked a horned skull. Another rammed a magic-imbued kunai into a demon’s eye socket, detonating the creature’s head in a burst of white flame. Explosive tags detonated along the parapet, ripping limbs and wings from the attackers.

Ra’s al Ghul moved at the center of it all—untouchable, precise, a ghost in human flesh. His sword carved arcs of death through the demonic ranks. Every strike was measured. Every kill necessary.

But even the Demon’s Head could be caught off balance. A thunderous roar shook the wall as a hulking brute—three times the size of a man—barreled through a cluster of ninja. It slammed into Ra’s like a charging bull, knocking him to the stones. His head struck hard. The world spun.

“MASTER!” Masaki’s voice tore through the chaos.

Ra’s blinked, vision blurry. The demon raised its claws, aiming for his heart. Masaki reached them first. The demon’s talons punched clean through Masaki’s abdomen. Blood exploded from his back in a dark spray as the clawed hand ran him through. The elite ninja sagged forward with a choking gasp—but still, through agony, he roared a defiant cry and stabbed both his blades into the demon’s throat.

The beast gurgled and reeled. Ra’s surged to his feet, fury igniting his limbs. He snatched up his sword, swept it in a vicious arc, and severed the demon’s entire arm—still impaled through Masaki’s gut. The brute shrieked, stumbling backward as Ra’s cleaved again, nearly decapitating it. The head dangled by a strip of flesh, enough to end the fight. A pair of ninja hurled flaming tags, incinerating the corpse before it could regenerate.

The battle continued in a distant roar, but Ra’s heard none of it. He knelt, gently removing the demon’s severed arm from Masaki’s body. His hands worked automatically—steady, efficient—the buried instincts of a long-dead physician rising to the surface.

“Damn fool,” Ra’s muttered, pulling herbs and bandages from a pouch. “Damn heroic fool.”

Masaki, pale and drenched in blood, removed his mask with trembling fingers. He managed a weak smile.

“Why do you curse me, Master? Did I ... not do my duty?”

Ra’s bound the wound with practiced speed. Lazarus-infused salves hissed as they met torn flesh. “You did,” Ra’s said quietly. “But sometimes ... I wish my children valued their own lives more than mine.”

Masaki reached up, gripping Ra’s’ hand. “Without you ... there is no League.” He coughed blood. “And remember what Merlin said. If you die ... your soul goes to the Stone. The battle ends. The world falls.”